Los Angeles Vigilantes
by kagehisa
Summary: Los Angeles, in it's darkest hour, has birthed new masked heroes, or vigilantes, depending on who you ask. And Shackle has been called many things: Killer, thug, assassin, vigilante, freak. Now he doesn't know what call himself. "Hero" will have to do.
1. First Blood

**Disclaimer: I don't own Kick-Ass. The movie or the comic. This story, on the other hand, is mine. The plot is mine. The characters are mine. The setting is mine. While I drew inspiration for this fanfic from watching "Kick-Ass", I may or may not even use the characters from the comic or the movie, until I decide for certain at a later date. Until that time, this fanfic belongs to me and me alone. Anyone is free to use my characters to use in their own fanfics, but I'm claiming credit first.**

_**Warning: Alright. I'll give y'all fair warning. There MIGHT be slight racial references in this fanfic of mine, including some graphic violence and harsh language, possible adult themes later on. Don't like, don't read. I'm not forcing you.**_

_**But, if you plan to issue insults and needless critisms in your reviews (if you chose to even leave any), just don't bother. I'll delete any useless reviews anyway.**_

I'm done here. Let's get this show on the road.

Marker!

* * *

**Chapter 1: First Blood**

Slapping my gloved hands like I was cleaning them free of dust in a gesture of a job well done, I had turned to walk out the door when I heard the metallic _ping_ of something hitting the wooden floor and the footfalls of a running retreat, followed by the sound of a dull thump. Naturally, my eyes, hidden behind my mask's convex lenses, strayed to the floor where I spotted an M69 hand grenade.

Now, before this little marvel of explosive engineering detonates and sends me on a one-way, all expense-paid trip to the after-life, let's put a few details into perspective:

Point One. I'm standing in an average apartment condo where, the bodies of more than twenty men are attracting flies, blood-puddles are pock-marked beneath said cadavers, all the lights have been destroyed by way of gunfire or thrown knife, every wall of the apartment is riddled with bullet-holes, and most of the furniture is smashed to bits. In other words, no place to jump behind for cover, and the ground is a slip-trap as a result of my own killing spree.

Point Two. My outfit, specially tailored and fitted with carbon-fiber, high-pressure plastic and steel body armor which were tested to withstand low to medium-caliber ammunition, and a bullet-proof plastic helmet completely encasing my head from chin to cranium, had never actually seen testing for explosive ballistics whatsoever.

And last but not least, and I stress the importance of this last detail, Point Three. I am currently standing in front of a simple, unbarred window (leading to the emergency fire escape stairwell) made of wooden frames and cheap glass panels where, outside this meager barrier of wood and glass, an alleyway looms down six stories below, and little chance for anything soft to land on.

In short, this grenade goes off, hits me full force and, if the shock wave doesn't kill me, sends me out the window where I'll be at the mercy of gravity, and be little more than a bag of tenderized meat and pulverized bones on the pavement.

Too late to do much else, I could only utter the first words that popped in my head at that exact second.

"Oh, shit."

Cue explosion.

Naturally, as anyone who's ever heard of a hand grenade, the blast-wave of the explosion hits me like a wrecking ball swung from a crane, knocking me clear off my feet and throwing me backwards. My flight sent me through the window, shattering it into a thousand pieces of wood and glass, and my back crashed into the neighboring building's A/C unit on the 5th floor's wall like a sack of meat, crumpling the weak-metal machine on impact. I felt the pain explode in my back, and idly hoped my armor stood up the punishment.

Afterwards was guesswork, as I wasn't fully conscious of my limp body bouncing off the walls and smashing A/C units out of their frames as I bounced between the two buildings like a pin-ball at an arcade on my sixty foot drop. All I was aware of was the feeling of weightlessness, like I was flying, when, to my astonishment later, my brief flight came to a sudden stop once landing in a trash dumpster overflowing with black bags of garbage, cushioning my fall better than a pile of pillows.

Still, bad luck decided to give me another kick in the nuts by my tumbling out of the dumpster and hitting the hard pavement on my back and buried beneath bags of trash that followed me on the way down, laying there and staring off into the cloudy Los Angeles night sky.

I breathed hard, desperately sucking air back into my lungs, fighting down the waves of nausea from the agony of my battered body that threatened to send me into blissful oblivion. I couldn't afford to fall unconscious in this alley and become easy pickings for those fuckers I've been fighting. But I couldn't rush. Take things slow. One step at a time. Breathe.

First things first. Body inventory. Gingerly flexing the muscles around my arms, I felt no sharp pains shoot into my nerves, and I cautiously lifted my right arm, then left, flexing my gloved fingers. No signs of broken bones around my arms, though there was the threat of having hair-line fractures in my bones that could fester into a real problem.

Next, check my midsection. I slowly prodded around my chest, and felt relief on feeling no ribs broken, though there was no question there were gonna be bruised for weeks to come.

Now, for the moment of truth. If the nerves in my spine had been damaged, I wouldn't be able to move my feet or feel pain below my waist. I tried flexing my toes, feeling the coarse fabric of my socks brush against my calloused digits, and breathed a sigh of relief. Just to make sure it wasn't a figment of my imagination, I freed one of my last remaining throwing knives from my coat sleeve and slipped the tip through the seams of my thigh armor plates, pressing against my unprotected skin. I felt the tip puncture my flesh, felt the warmth of my blood soak into the fabric of my pants, and again felt relief swell in my chest. I repeated the action with my left leg, and deemed them fit to move.

After doing one more check around my legs to find any broken bones (there were none, but didn't doubt for a second there'd be fractures), I gingerly sat up, grimacing in pain as I raised myself to my feet and biting back a howl of agony as needles danced up my nerves and spiked my brain like a hammer-strike. I swayed, dizzy at first, but managed to balance myself out of sheer willpower, fighting down the pain and vertigo.

In spite of the pain, the agony, the bruises, blood and trash smell lingering about my body, I smiled. This pain, it fills me with fulfillment. I earned these wounds, and this smell would stay with me forever, however much it reeked. This pain, was mine.

No time to get philosophical, though. Time to leave.

I hobbled over to the next street, favoring my left side and slightly dragging my left leg as I strode through the alleyways leading to an alley between a deli and shoe store, where my prize waited for me. A black motor-cross dirt-bike was chained securely behind a trash dumpster to prevent any thieves from taking it, and I desperately searched for the key to the lock as I approached, leaving behind a trail of blood drops.

At least the clouds were rolling in. It smelled of ozone, hinting at the promise of rain.

The chain dropped, I mounted my bike, revved the motor and brought my vehicle roaring to life, twisting the accelerator handle and speeding off into the night, and once again going to call my friends and ask for another all-nighter regarding medical help.

Or maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. For you to understand exactly what's going on, how about I start from the beginning...?

* * *

I suppose any story should begin with an introduction.

"Wha'ja say, mutha fucka?"

Oh, right. First thing's first.

"You heard me, shit-wits. Fuck off and stand aside."

That would be me, Jilliad Thomas, telling off a black thug flanked by his two "friends" behind him, dressed as your average street trash with baggy jeans hanging below their waists and white tank-top muscle shirts, chains and jewelry adorning their necks and fingers. Apparently, they want me to hand over my wallet, no questions asked, or they'll kick my ass.

Not in this lifetime.

The black man in front grinned, showing his glittering braces, and I punched the fucker in the throat, pivoting my waist with my foot to deliver the full force into the blow. I felt the windpipe in his throat collapse, and stepped back as the thug fell forward, hands scrambling at his neck in vain to bring in air to his already starving lungs.

Naturally, the man's two buddies got pissed, but before they could jump forward and rush me two-against-one, I flipped a shaving razor from my pocket and slashed out, shearing a finger off the thug on my left. He wailed, cursed, stumbling backward on his feet, and his buddy backed off immediately.

I raised the strait razor threateningly at them. "Any of you fuckers step forward and I'll cut your balls off, got that?"

They looked at me like hyenas would a lion. Hatefully, scornfully, but fearfully as well. They wouldn't dare attack me with a knife in my possession, and risk ending up like their supposed "leader". They backed off a couple steps

The first fucker I dropped groaned, alive but breathing in a hissing wheeze, rising to his hands and knees. "And take this sack of pig-shit with you!", I yelled, kicking him in the ribs for good measure. I heard an audible pop somewhere in his chest region before he grunted, curling in on himself and I sauntered away, feeling very, very satisfied.

Of course, my satisfaction was short-lived when the sound of gun-fire cracked behind me, and a bullet hit the metal pole not three feet to my left, and I made a hasty getaway to my right down a side-alley between a barber shop and jewelry store, leaving behind the cursing trio of pride and flesh-wounded thugs. I won't lie and say I wasn't scared, but after a minute of running at full speed down trash-littered alleyways, I started laughing. I couldn't help myself, really. It's like one of those things where you have to laugh after nearly getting caught doing something wrong.

On the other hand, I probably wouldn't be laughing tomorrow, 'cause I think I recognized those black fuckers from my high school, and, not to sound conceited or anything regarding ethnicity, I'm pretty recognizable for a Caucasian male. Barely 5' 10", copper blond hair, blue eyes and a large nose having been broken repeatedly due to many fist fights, I stood out from the average crowd despite my best efforts to blend in.

To anyone curious, I live in Los Angeles. If you don't already know, that's in California.

Now, as I unlock the door to the house I share with my dad, I make one very big mistake.

I let my guard down.

Once the door opened and I stepped inside the threshold, a fist clocked me right in the nose from out of nowhere and dropped me flat on my ass, hissing in pain and pinching my bleeding nostrils closed.

"How many times I gotta tell ya? Don't let your guard down or you'll get a bloody nose every time you walk in here."

Still pinching my nostrils shut, I glared up at my old man. His name was Mathew Thomas, brown hair styled in a military cut with broad, chiseled facial features and crooked nose from repeated breaking. He wore faded blue jeans and white wife-beater shirt, and he was built like a boxer.

Despite my discomfort, I grinned at him. "Thanks for the memo, old man."

Then I kicked my heel into his shin, unbalancing him and making him fall to one knee, just as I sat up in a flourish and jabbed a hard right into his cheek, followed by a flat-palm slap into his right ear.

From there, it escalated into a wrestling match and, predictably, I lost due to my much smaller body mass and with his arms locked firmly around my neck. I patted his shoulder, signaling my surrender, and he released my neck from his hold.

Laughing, my dad promptly rose and went straight to the couch, plopping himself down and scrolling through the channels, stopping at a news broadcast regarding tomorrow's weather and stock prices.

"How much homework ya got?", my dad asked me as I stood up, rubbing my neck.

I answered honestly. "A lot. I won't be done with it all even after dinner. By the way", I pulled out a wad of dollar bills and handed it to him. "Here's my rent for the month."

Dad scrolled through the money quickly, counting two thousand dollars as I had promised. "Thanks. This'll help with rent and food. Kept some for yourself, right?"

"Of course. I can't walk around town without cash, can I?"

As you can already guess, I live with my dad, and my mom had split when I was ten, I think. Details are a little sketchy, but apparently she grew bored with dad in the sex department and started sleeping around and spending my dad's money on beer, wine and clothes better suited for twenty dollar whores. She did this for two weeks and my dad just grew fed up with it, deciding to file for a divorce before she forced all of us into debt. Thankfully for dad, he got a good stipend from the divorce and managed to find us both this reasonably good-sized apartment here in Los Angeles.

As for my mother, I only heard she snagged some snobby rich dude into fashion designer clothes and high-tailed it out of the state. I don't know where is, but I wish her well and hope she won't come back. She wasn't exactly mother material, if you know what I mean.

As for me, as soon as I was in high school, my dad insisted I get a job to help with paying rent, utilities and food expenses, so I went into work for newspaper delivering for the Union Square Districts. I didn't have a car then, but I managed to buy a dirt-bike to drive around, which was a plus since it was durable, required only standard maintenance, and parts for it were cheap as hell. Also 'cause I could get a license for a dirt-bike at fifteen.

Now, no doubt some of you might be curious as to why my dad punched me as soon as I entered the apartment. The answer is simple: Because I had a tendency to fight with others when I was in Elementary School, my old man decided to teach how to fight properly, and told me the best way to learn was to experience it first-hand. I guess having been a soldier once upon a time also came in handy when instilling discipline into a kid such as myself.

Any who, since I don't want to bore myself into a sleeping stupor giving a lecture on my family history, let's skip ahead to the day after, starting with Lunch Period at my High School, Theodore Roosevelt High.

Lunch Period was usually a hectic time for anyone wanting peace and quiet. Sitting at the very end of a long table, I was eating a slice of pepperoni pizza, with my four friends surrounding me, two to my left, two sitting across the table from me.

"Hey Jil. If you had the choice of being a superhero, which one would you be?"

That would Marcus Adams, one of my very small circle of friends. He's the guy that wears reading glasses, read comic books, but also happens to be smart as hell, able to ace any test without having the need to study. Now, before you go thinking he's a nerd, he isn't a pimple-faced, gawky-looking, or wears terrible clothes. Let's just call him a devoted student.

As for his appearance, his medium-length brown hair was styled much like Owen Wilson's, kinda gaunt face with a pointed chin and sharp nose. Aside from that, his build was slim at best, as his metabolism was so high; he burned fat like a torch melts butter.

I scratch at my head from his question, thinking. "I'd either be Wolverine or Deadpool. You?"

"Man, I'd totally be Iron-Man! I'd love to have a robotic suit and fly and blast shit to bits. Why would you wanna be Wolverine or Deadpool, anyway?"

"Why are you guys even discussing this anyway?", Cassy Heathers asked exasperatedly. A curly-haired brunette slightly taller than myself, and a hell of a gymnast in the school's gymnastics team. Her build wasn't frail or bulky, but slim and compact, with an impressive C-cup pair of breasts (which she frequently caught me staring at, but never raised an issue about, thankfully), and a modestly attractive face. Not beautiful, but cute.

Just don't let her looks fool you; one dumb fucker made the mistake of calling her a dyke and had his jaw dislocated from the heel kick she delivered.

I answered automatically. "'Cause there's nothing better to do with our time while we're eating, unless you wanna discuss last week's scandal about Brad Pit and Angelina Jolie in the tabloids, like every other annoying parasite is discussing. Honestly, people should just enjoy the movies the actors work in, not worship them or any of that double-standard bullshit."

"Moving on Cassy! Which super heroin would you be?", Carter Stall asked, sitting to my left. The guy was older than me by a few months, and was your die-hard heart-throb that attracted the ladies attention like a magnet. His black hair was short, gelled in a spiky fashion like a porcupine, deep brown eyes and handsome face. I swear this guy belongs in a woman's magazine. It still baffled me why he hung out with us when he could be with the other popular students in the front corner of the cafeteria.

"Me? I'd be Batgirl. Not like the first one, but the forth one. You know, Cassandra Cain Batgirl?"

Surprised yet that she would even know anything regarding comic books after putting her lifestyle into perspective? Let's just say she has a lot of free time, and doesn't spend it like your typical school girl who would either be painting her nails or chatting like a monkey on her mobile phone.

Across from her, I'm having a hard time from keeping my laughter down. "You mean if your dad told you to go say hello to someone, you'd punch them in the throat?"

Naturally, Cassy swiped my cup of Pepsi and threw it at my head, though I managed to duck, still chortling. The poor sucker behind me that got splashed yelled indignantly, but a quick glare from Cassy made whatever the guy was going to say die a quick death in his throat.

"Still, it's a damn shame, ain't it?", Marcus added, adjusting his glasses. "That there aren't any real-life super heroes going around and fighting criminals. Like the Watchmen."

"I rescind my earlier choices; I'd totally be Rorschach." I stated with enthusiasm. If there was one kind of super hero I liked, it was the kind that were not gifted with powers, but in fact fought with no more than modern-day tools and bare hands. Rorschach was my favorite for his character and uncompromising ideals. It was a shame he died the way he did in the graphic novel. All to keep world peace based on a lie, Dr. Manhattan blasted Rorschach into jelly, leaving his remains splattered on the frozen plateau of Richard Veidt's compound.

"Figures", Carter said, looking at me askance. "Only you would like the guy. Both your policies are 'hit first, ask questions later'."

"It works, doesn't it? Besides, at least Rorschach pursued to actually fight against crime, even after the whole world around him hated him for it. And he didn't do it like Superman would, simply take the beating and gently hand the perp over to the police. No, he takes matters into his own hands and, if necessary, kills the bastards outright to be rid of one more scumbag. After he dishes out the ass-whoopin', of course."

So it went, debating between our favorite comic book super hero icons on their good points and whatnot, almost until the bell was primed to ring and signal an end to our lunch period.

Then our conversation turned serious. Marcus asked Cassy while looking expectantly at her. "Say, Cass. If you were a costume-wearing crime-fighter, what would be your reason for it?"

Cassy considered it for a moment, sipping at her coke. "I'd do it for the little people out there; abused, neglected, or exploited. I especially wouldn't mind coming across the sex offenders and cutting of their _equipment_."

While the three of us males at the table collectively winced, Marcus turned to Carter. "What about you? Attract the ladies better and look like a hero?"

"Maybe", Carter grinned, shrugging. "It'd certainly be a nice bonus. Mainly, I'd do it to help our law enforcement with the real bad guys like drug dealers and pimps and gang thugs. They really piss me off, and our police force in the city gets too much criticism from the public for doing their job to protect them. Way to thank your public protectors."

And wouldn't you know it, Marcus turned to me last. "And what about you, Jilliad? Any deep reasons you'd be a super hero?"

Chin resting in my hands, I answered, tone flat as the table beneath me. "Clean up the streets of excess trash littering the gutters."

Apparently, after understanding my metaphor, I drew everyone off guard. They stared at me as if I told them I murdered someone. "That's…a little extreme."

Not the least bit apologetic, I stared at Marcus, unblinking. "Just yesterday, three black sons of fuckin' bitches cut me off, told me to hand over my wallet, or they'd bust my ass up. I punched the biggest fucker straight in the throat, sliced off a finger of his buddy that had the_ brilliant_ idea to charge at me with my shaving razor, and told the third little prick –under no uncertain terms- that I'd gut him like a pig if he stepped forward.

"Of course, just before I turned to go my own way, I gave the fucker I hit in the throat a good kick in the ribs just to make sure he stayed down, and for picking the wrong person to fuck with. When I turned around to go on my merry way, the guy I didn't harm pulled out a gun and fired a round that hit a light pole not three feet from my head. As you can already tell, I'm not that forgiving; and I'm not the least bit regretful for what I did. In fact, if I could do it again, I'd do so in a heartbeat.

"And don't tell me my view is a little extreme. Our streets are crawling with trash that take by force either money, possessions, or lives. I'd sooner see to killing more than a hundred sacks of pig shit that walk our streets than see one person exploited or abused by these vermin whom don't deserve it."

The silence that followed the end of my sermon was shattered by the lunch bell ringing.

* * *

My friends didn't speak to me for the rest of the day, and I them. Against my better judgment, I had laid bare my honest perspectives. How much I hated the thugs and gangsters and punks that infested the streets. How much I wanted to "clean up the trash."

School had ended hours ago. I sat on my bed, staring at my many novels and comic books lining the shelves of my bookcase I had found left beside a dumpster. Many of my reading books are about war themes such as Splinter Cell and other Tom Clancy novels. Others include several DC and Marvel theme stories like Batman and the X-men, or fiction and fantasy books taking place in medieval settings. One of my thicker graphic novels is Watchmen, and I pause, thinking.

Why can't an average person become a super hero?

Too often are people spouting about how they want to be like Batman or Spiderman or Wonder Woman when they're children, simply because they are too simple-minded to understand what it truly means to be a superhero.

Being a superhero meant bearing a great responsibility to the protection of the public, to hold the safety of the many above yourself, and, if necessary, sacrifice yourself to achieve it.

Children wanted to be superheroes because they thought it was cool and exciting.

True, I'll admit I once wanted to be a superhero like the guys in the Marvel and DC universe, but I grew out of that when I was seven. Didn't mean I stopped collecting and reading comic books, only I wasn't so zealous about it like a mentally retarded idiot.

But what if someone did dress up in mask and costume and help people? Fight criminals?

In fact, why can't I?

An answer came to me, simple, yet profound. I grinned.

Standing up, I strode over to my closet, flinging open the doors to display my various coats, shirts, out-grown or worn-down shoes and boots, and my collection of defense weapons.

I pulled out my worn black leather coat and jeans. A pair of combat boots and padded fighting gloves completed the ensemble.

I slid a black ski mask over my head, inspecting myself in the mirror.

I hardly recognize myself. I look like a typical masked thug, but it definitely served its purpose: kept my identity hidden.

I took a combo-stick, sheathed it, and fastened the holster onto my thigh while slipping a couple extra folding knives into my rear pockets, and a compact LED flashlight. Lastly, I pulled out my crowning piece, a hunting knife that would make Rambo proud and sharp to the touch. I tied the sheath to my belt on my lower back, fitting comfortably and out of sight.

Want to know what my answer was?

No one says I can't.

So I say _yes_.

* * *

First night out on patrol, near midnight now. Just as soon as I'd slipped on my outfit, the urge to venture out overtook me. I lived on Rockwood St. on North Union and Belmont, and the nearest highway was Hollywood Freeway just three city blocks away. I hopped out of my bedroom window, keeping my head low as I crept to my chained bike stored in the backyard shed under lock and key. The lock clicks open with the twist of my key, the door swings open, and I stare at my orange-and-white dirt bike. My hand goes to my pocket where the chain and ignition keys are stored, but stop.

I almost hit myself. Going around on a loud motor bike with a black ski-mask would only attract negative attention, and bring the police department barreling down on my ass like dogs chasing a bitch in heat.

The shed closes, locked once more (while I mutter obscenities to myself about the near stupid mistake on my part), and I head out toward Hollywood Freeway on foot, keeping my head low and darting to the shadows for cover. Stray and random bushes and hedges offer decent cover from late-night pedestrians wandering under the street lights, and they pass by unaware of my presence.

I guess I've got a knack for stealth after all.

Ten minutes later, I'm under the freeway after crossing Palo Alto Street. Few vehicles, if any, were out this late at night, and not one had passed beneath the freeway overpass. Only two overhang lights are even on to illuminate the underside of the highway overpass, and I'm on the opposite side of the street, away from the light like a vampire retreats from the sun.

Maybe I've been reading too many books.

Then a sound reaches my ears, one I'm familiar with: The hard packing sounds of wood hitting flesh.

My legs are moving forward before I could even consider turning back, keeping the darkness and away from any lights, ducking under the cover of anything in sight; bushes, parked cars, street lights and signs. I must've ran a city block's distance before I caught sight of the source of the sound.

Three thugs were ganging up on a couple, a white man and black girl, and the man was on the ground and lying still. Couldn't tell if he was dead or not. The three thugs were black, wearing thick coats and wife-beaters with their jeans hanging loose on their hips. One had a bat in hand, the other a crowbar. The third must have a knife, 'cause I hear the sound of tearing cloth from more than fifty feet away as they started ripping the panicking girl's shirt and shorts off, one pinning her arms above her head, the other busy with ripping her clothes off. Two of them seemed familiar.

"Yeah, tha's right, bitch! Bet'chu like this, don'cha dirtay ho! Gonna fuck you raw and hard tonigh'. Show you how a real man fuck's a girl."

They never saw me coming up behind them. Didn't hear me either. The thug with the knife was busy taking his pants off ready to rape the poor girl on her back.

My hands came up, over the tall fucker's shoulders, gripping chin and back of his head, and gave a hard twist. The crunch of snapping bone was deafening, and the would-be rapist dropped like a sack of meat, head dangling at an odd angle.

The other jumped back, startled, and sputtering. They stared at me, eyes wide and mouths dropped open. The look suited them, even as they hesitantly raised their respective crowbar and bat. They looked like stupefied monkeys just before the panther pounced on them and ripped the life right out of them.

I spoke in a sneer. "Evening, gents. Sorry to spoil the fun, but your time is up." The sheath snapped open, and my night stick spun in my grasp as my free hand drew my hunting knife. "Who'll be the next fucker to die tonight?"

* * *

An hour later…

I snuck back in through my bedroom window, winded, sweaty, but grinning from ear to ear, yet I didn't understand why at all. Tonight was my first night out as a would-be vigilante, and by some turn of coincidence or fate, I come across three punks that were attacking this couple in the dead of night, and I had helped them.

This was the first time I'd ever killed someone. And I did it three times this night.

From there, it could be called a skirmish. They swung at me wildly, missing me every time in their panic, and their heads met the business end of my baton, and one ended up having his throat slashed open when he came in too close. In his panic, he dropped his bat to clutch at his open throat, and his breath turned into a dying gurgle as he collapsed to his knees.

I was surprised the last guy alive recovered so quickly after getting hit with my baton. The black thug chose to cut his losses and run for it, taking off into the street without a backward glance.

Big mistake on his part. As if fate hadn't had enough of punishing these jokers, a car had come in out of nowhere from the looping off-ramp and hit the poor sucker full speed, sending him flying above the car roof like a rag doll. The driver only paused for a mere instant, perhaps considering to help his victim, when I came strolling up, and the driver took off, apparently assuming I was some armed robber that would kill him and take his car. I could see the mist of his squealing tires and smelled the scent of burning rubber.

The dumb fucker was wheezing pathetically when I knelt down next to his battered, broken body. One of his arms was completely twisted about, dislocated with the bones of his radius and ulna piercing through his skin, and his legs were just as terribly shaped, growing darker red around the knees and ankles. From the way his hips rolled and slumped face-down onto the bloody pavement, his spine was broken.

Yeah. This guy was all kinds of fucked up.

This scene would be even more hilarious had this poor fucker been wearing a cross to compliment that old joke: "My Karma ran over your Dogma."

Still, the longer I stared at him, and he I, the greater the compulsion to just end it. No telling if he would in fact survive long enough for paramedics to arrive and cart him off to a hospital, and I'm not looking forward to any revenge schemes by this bastard's pals if he ever told the tale.

Taking my serrated hunting knife to his neck, I sliced open his windpipe, and blood gushed out like milk from an open carton. I felt no sympathy for him, his buddies, or people like him who thought they could commit crimes and expect leniency. They wanted to break the law to pursue their own selfish and destructive ends, then I see no reason why I shouldn't do the same in bringing them punishment for their crimes.

As the last breath rattled in his lungs, I spat in the dying fucker's eyes as I stood and walked off. The near naked girl and her boyfriend had long ago taken off, leaving behind only the tattered garments of the girl's near sexual assault.

I pulled the mask off my head, held it in my hands, and stared at the faceless visage that looked back at me like the mirror of my own dark soul. My hands shake, adrenaline and shock making my nerves go haywire.

In the span of one hour, I had become a cold-hearted killer like those I so despised. No, that wasn't right. I didn't take what didn't belong to me; I didn't bring harm to those that didn't deserve punishment; I only sought to pay back those that brought misery and pain onto others undeserving of it.

Damn it, my hands won't stop shaking!

I toss the mask back into my closet angrily, shed free of my clothes and weapons, and fall onto my bed, exhausted and asleep within moments of hitting my pillow.

* * *

No surprise that there was little talk about the events of last night being discussed when I came to school the next day. The reporters broadcasting said how the death of three black men was attributed to another gang-related attack, which Los Angeles is oh-so famous for. Cops brought forensics teams, did a sweep of the area, and to them it looked no different than your average gang killing.

Of course, the only difference being that they weren't killed by bullets, but by knives, which wasn't very common, but not out of the ordinary. Turns out it's much more efficient to kill someone like such instead of using guns, as they were more traceable and easy to link with today's weapon's registry system.

As for the family and friends of the three black guys killed, the family came forward and spoke about how terrible it was for "such promising, and misunderstood boys dying for nothing."

I resisted the urge to spit at the television screen as it played in my first period classroom. What I wouldn't give to hit that fucking stupid family in each of their faces and telling them they died because of their stupidity. I would've loved to tell them those "boys" were better off having died in pain over their own mistake. Had I had my sweet time with them, I'd done worse than kill them quickly.

You wanna know the kicker? All three guys were brothers.

Can you say "family does crime together, dies together", boys and girls? I knew you could.

The rest of the day passed in a haze, half-remembered snippets of class-work and assignments for studying on next week's tests. The lunch bell rang, and I joined the throng of the lunch-time rush hour to the cafeteria. I meet up with my friends at our table practically reserved for us.

Today I'm eating a cheeseburger with fries for my lunch, as opposed to my regular lunch with pizza. But all the slices being served looked too hard or stale or cold. Not exactly very appetizing.

Another change to my average lunch period was when Cassy chose to sit next to me instead of Marcus, as he was the most "safe" amongst us three males, and in no small part to his rather meager physical stature. She didn't say a word as she dug into her lunch, and I followed her example, curiosity waning.

Next Marcus and Carter strode over, each looking this way and that over their shoulders nervously as they took their seats opposite of Cassy and me. Something was going on, and I wanted to know what.

"Alright you two. What's got ya so worked up?", I asked as I bit into my cheeseburger.

Marcus ran a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp. "Have you been hearing the rumors going around?"

My only answer was a quirk of my eyebrow.

Having got the message, Marcus continued. "See, you know those guys that were reported killed just last night? Well, another guy who was a friend to two of the three brothers got into it with his gang, talking about roughing up everyone in school if they had to find out who it was. But you wanna know the odd thing?"

"Please, tell us, before we get old." I asked, exasperated.

"The same guy has a finger missing, and started these rumors about you, Jil. About you being…gay."

It only occurred to me afterward why Cassy had sat next to me; to restrain me. But even as she managed to wrap her forearm beneath my chin, I shrugged off her hold like nothing, spun in my seat, and my eyes found my target, chatting with his buddies at the other end of the cafeteria ward, right hand bandaged: that black motherfuckin' parasite I had wounded two days ago.

I gave no war cry, no snarl, no grimace or scowl of rage. I just ran.

Ran so fast I cleared ten paces in a second. I could've gone for track.

Ran straight toward my target.

Fifty paces of distance was cleared in under five seconds. My target barely had time to catch sight of me coming at him, stand up, and turn to run before I reached him.

He managed one step before the tip of my left elbow cracked the back of his head, cutting open a three-inch gash in his flesh just behind his right ear. He dropped like a dead weight and smacked face-first into the tiled floor, unconscious.

Naturally, one doesn't have to guess to know what happened afterward. As is their habit or tendency, whatever you call it, black people always gang-rush on individuals when one of their own has fallen; be it a fist-fight or a gang-war. That's exactly what occurred, as all the black high school guys seated at the table behind me jumped from their seats and rushed me.

Basically, seven to one.

Not the best odds in my favor. But unlike them, I KNOW how to fight, and where to hit them with maximum effect.

The closest one swung a fist to my face, and I merely had to deflect his arm with my right as my left arm curled and struck him in the temple with my elbow. Using the momentum of my first blow, I spun and lashed out with a back-fist that hit the guy behind the first square in the chin, and felt something pop , either his jaw or my wrist, I couldn't tell.

Once the second guy stumbled past me, I snapped out a kick into the oncoming black-guy's hip, stopping him dead in his tracks and almost off his feet, managing to bring him to his hands and knees. The last thing that he saw was my knee as it flattened his nose and sent him to la-la land.

As you could already predict, my good fortune was hardly long-lasting, as two of the last four each grabbed me by my arms and shirt, pinning me for the last two fuckers to hit me.

Thankfully for me, I've hardly ever relied on good fortune to fall in my lap like a show girl.

With two guys at my flank, I grabbed the bastard on my left by his balls, felt them pop in my crushing grip, and his arms fell away as he grasped at his ruined testicles and screaming bloody murder. A hard head butt shattered the nose of the guy on my right, and I grabbed his shirt and threw him to the last two black guys just as they were getting within an arm's reach. They piled atop each other in a shamble, and I didn't hesitate to kick and punch their faces while on their backs. I made sure they stayed that way so they wouldn't interfere with what I had to finish.

Stepping over the dumb fuckers lying on the ground, heedless of the many silent and countless eyes staring at me and shouting or whispering encouragements or condemnations, I walked over to the first guy I put down, my every step a proclamation of his imminent demise, and fisted the collar of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip, hoisting him up as he started to come around.

"Got anything left to say now, pig-shit? Anymore rumors you'd like to spread before I tear you apart? I promised I would gut you like the FUCKIN' pig you are, and I am always a man of my word."

My fist struck like a hammer, splitting the bastard's plump lips and knocking free several teeth, which he spat out in a spray of blood, wetting my face. "S….sto-….stop…", he moaned pathetically.

My second punch hit him just under his cheek, dislocating his jaw completely. He barely gave out a wheezing moan of pain as his only means of pleading for mercy. Somewhere in the cafeteria, I heard several gasps of horror call out in the silence around me. "Why should I, shit-wits? You tried to kill me the day before yesterday; why shouldn't I finish what and your fucking worthless piles of shit buddies started two days ago? Give me one goddamned reason why I should spare you anything, you maggot!"

I drew back my right arm to deliver the_ coup de grace_, only I was stopped by my friends, Cassy securing her hold on my neck, Marcus and Carter each restraining one of my arms, pulling me away from possibly killing the stupid fucker in cold blood.

I'm dragged away by my friends, restrained like a wild beast, leaving behind only the ruin and fear of my fury.

* * *

7:34 P.M.

I come home, meeting no resistance from my old man, and I know that's much worse than a roaring lion. More like the moment before the axe falls and heads start rolling.

I close the door behind me, toss my backpack onto the dining table. There my dad is now, sitting on the couch and watching Girls Gone Wild on pay-per-view. He doesn't look in my direction, doesn't even give a hint as to acknowledging my presence, but I knew the signs. Wordlessly, I walked over and took a seat next to him on the couch, looking at the screen of topless college girls without taking in the eroticism. I feel no excitement, and stare blankly at nothing.

"Fight at school today?"

Thank whatever outside forces working beyond human comprehension that you never will be within arm's reach of my dad when he talks to you in a tone dripping with disappointment.

"More like a beat down." I answer, preparing for the inevitable.

"Did they deserve it?"

"….One of them did. The rest of the guys that tried to interfere came at me in numbers seven to one; saw no point in holding back or being merciful to anyone that decided to bring the fight."

"How did it start?"

"…The guy missing the finger. I met him just two days ago, him and two of his friends. Cornered me, threatened to beat me up if I didn't hand over my wallet. Knocked the first fucker out with a throat punch, cut off the second bastard's finger with that shaving razor you got me for last year's Christmas, and threatened the third guy with the knife, told him to back off. Same guy with finger missing spread rumors about me being homo-sexual. Thought it prudent to return the favor."

"And how many days suspended?"

"…Three days."

To be quite honest, I couldn't give a shiny damn about how the Principle admonished me in his office, telling me I was lucky I wasn't being expelled or sent to prison for my "over-the-top actions". Said I was lucky I hadn't injured any of the guys I beat up too terribly (aside from the guy with the broken jaw, crushed testicle and flattened nose), or they'd probably testify, take me to court, and have me locked up.

No black thug or gangster would bother to try going to court. Couldn't even afford the lowest-standard for a lawyer, and couldn't put a story together worth the shit they flush down the john. They'd find out where you lived, and either took your stuff, beat you up, or killed you in sheer numbers. Or all of the above.

I really couldn't give a shit.

The Principle (whose name escapes me) could blow hot air as much as he liked; didn't mean I'd follow his example. Saw no point in acting as the passive student that did nothing in the face of abuse or harassment. I'm no fuckin' sheep; I'm the goddamned ram that sends any stupid fucker down the cliff side that challenges me.

I'm the leopard that snaps the baboon's neck in its jaws when the chatty monkey bites off more than it can chew.

And I will not apologize.

Not even to my dad, the one man in this world I respect without question.

"Then you're grounded for that time until you go back to school. You can do your work with the paper route, but you're confined to your room with no tv, computer or phone until then. Understand?"

I nodded, silent, and pulled out my mobile, placing it on the table before sitting up and going to my bedroom. I came back to the living room with my 24-inch screen television and placed it next to the window. The college girls on the t.v. screen giggled as they molested each other with hands and lips in a shower stall. I felt no excitement at the sight of it as I left to my room.

* * *

Although I had been grounded and had no TV, phone, or computer (my old man disconnected the phone line giving me internet access), there was still plenty of other things I could do to kill time. Draw, read my books and comics, exercise, practice my combat skills some more, sharpen my knives…

I lay back on my bed, doodling on my drawing pad. What I was thinking of was costume and mask designs for my vigilante (I refuse to call myself a superhero, as there's nothing "super" about me) outfit.

I had the weapons, at least with knives and clubs and such. What I needed was armor, to protect myself from bullets and knives; last night had been a fluke of luck on my side that the would-be rapists had no gun on them). I'd also need something to protect my head from clubs and bullets. A regular moter-bike helmet was too heavy and cumbersome, even reinforced for urban combat, too damn bulky. A regular mask was out of the question; ripped off too easily, and offered no protection.

Vambraces and greaves were definitely needed; help protect me and add as blunt weapons in unarmed fights. Include some kind of belt to hold other tools.

My hand moves of its own accord, manipulating the pencil and bringing my vision onto paper. I see an oval-shaped mask, attached to a full-head helmet, secured by leather straps on the very back of my head, just above my neck. The eye holes are perfectly circular, but contain lenses of either glass or plastic, or nothing at all, with one section around the upper-left side of the mask in complete black, and four air slits around the mouth area, allowing me to breathe.

I don't want a uniform. I want something that I can carry and conceal many things on my possession, easily slipped on and off.

A coat, with a hood, reversible. One side red, the other camouflage design. Need armor beneath coat, but will get to that later.

Pants can be anything, but strong material is a must, and certainly not flashy. Jeans are out of the question; they'd rip easily, and are too damn restrictive for demanding movement.

I came to a stop in my listing, drawing no further inspiration. I set the drawing pad down and get off my bed, stepping into a fighting stance. I feel the sudden need to practice, like drawing inspiration for my outfit would come from the side of me that embraces violence.

I see my imaginary foe in front of me, taller, always taller than me, average build, and would likely throw a predictable strait punch to my face. I lean my head to the left, catch the arm by the wrist in my right hand, and strike the elbow with my left forearm, breaking it at the joint. A palm-strike to the nose snaps back his head and sends him out of commission.

My eyes open, bringing me back to reality. I think to myself, 'With the freedom of choice, comes the consequence of terrible actions.'

How I wish to live a life of true freedom, unbound by useless morality or senseless laws that allow people to hurt each other for twisted reasons.

Therein lies the paradox: A society completely free, and without laws would be chaotic, and would fall apart. We in America, or as humans, have only limited freedoms restricted by the laws of our nation's governments to ensure the peace and balance of the Nation's prosperity.

We want freedom, yet we want protection. To have that protection and provision, we must give up certain freedoms to qualify.

A paradox.

Inspiration hits me. What was it that caught my attention before? Freedom. Unbound. Liberty.

What represents their counterparts? Restriction, binding, shackled-

I pause.

Shackled.

My face erupts into an expression of joyous triumph.

That'll be my costumed name.

_Shackle._

* * *

Three days passed without incident. During which time, I had gone out on regular patrols late around midnight, often scouring past the back alleys near the metropolitan streets and highways near my home, though only encountered a few muggers and would-be purse-snatchers. Small-fry. Stuck to the shadows, observing the passersby, saw nothing heinous as with my first time out. Drunkards wandering aimlessly after a day's work, druggies stumbling or jittering for another fix, groups of aggressive teens prowling the sidewalks, starting fights with other groups in some twisted territorial dispute.

Nothing interesting. Nothing I was needed for.

Then again, I'm only checking out a fraction of the city's area every night. Can't wander too far, not without being properly equipped.

I jot down something in my writing pad: _Procure half-way hideout._

My writing pad contains my list of things necessary for filling the role of a decent crime fighter. While everyone else in my class was either sleeping or chatting with their friends, I was busy writing down the basic prerequisites to being a masked vigilante.

_One: Have costume. Check._

_Two: Have name. Check._

_Three: Possession of needed tools and weapons. Check._

_Four: Mode of transportation. Check._

_Five: Memorize layout of police patrol. Look into later._

_Six: Secure hideout for half-way travel. Look into later._

I pause again, staring at my list while tapping my pen against my lips, thinking.

I write down: _Seven: Look into gathering allies and informants. Look into later._

I look up from my pad, toward the clock. 10:30. Five minutes to go. I pop my earphones into my ears and play my iPod on Three Days Grace and Breaking Benjamin, letting the sounds lull me away from this sad excuse of a school.

No one asked about what happened three days ago, when I received suspension for fighting with the blacks in the cafeteria. I think they were too scared of me: After all, how can one approach someone so violent and fury-driven without some form of retaliation?

People are always scared of things that are "out of the ordinary."

People can get scared of someone almost a foot taller than the rest, with the strength to match. Some are scared of the kind who bear scars like badges of honor.

People always fear things they can't _control_.

It disgusts me sometimes, how often the majority of the ignorant bastards surrounding me won't accept that some are smarter, faster, stronger, more skilled, more attractive, or more capable than others, either gifted with it at birth or earning it through simple hard effort. They try to degrade it, try to lessen its worth so they can feel equal, if not superior, simply out of fear. The fear of being inadequate; as if being born human set some unwritten law that we must be superior in all things, like anything to the contrary would make their existence meaningless.

We as humans make it all meaningless in our attempt to prove that meaning in ourselves simply out of spite, arrogance, and ego.

Lost in my own random musings, I'm startled from my thoughts when the bell rings, ending first period and signaling the Second. I pick up my backpack and join the throng of students to their respective classrooms.

The day passes in a haze, snippets of paperwork and tests I manage with little difficulty. The class periods tumble off like the discarded teeth of a shark, with many more to come much later in the coming weeks and months. I'm anxious for school to be over.

Lunch rolls around again, my favorite pastime. Most of my friends have separate classes from me, and the few classes we do share we are often seated away from one another. This is where we gather to talk, mingle, and share our experiences.

There is silence, interrupted by noisy eating or gulping as we delve into our respective meals. Cassy is once again on the other side of table across from me, knowing I'm still weary of her proximity after the incident three days ago. Marcus wordlessly kept his peace, offering some form of apology to me for their actions in restraining me.

I cannot hold that against them, as they no doubt did what they did simply to see that I didn't take things too far and face irrevocable consequences.

The silence stretched, leaving the atmosphere strained and unwelcoming. Well, I'm partly to blame for that, so maybe I should break the ice.

"Sorry about scaring y'all. I didn't hurt any of you when I went ape-shit berserk did I?"

Not exactly the best choice of words to the polite and higher-class, but what the hell? Why not have a little humor in your life while mixing some ol' fashioned expletives in the mix?

Carter actually smiled, apparently expecting me to speak. "Naw, you wouldn't hurt us if you were blindfolded. Though you left quite a few people in school lookin' at you like the lion that escaped its cage."

"Big fuckin' whoop. So anything big happen while I was suspended? I haven't been watching the news recently either."

Cassy spoke up at last. "Remember our school's Senior Quarterback Donald Tray? He was found dead almost two nights ago around China Town, gunned down apparently by some Asian gang or something. Police talked about it, said something about investigating the China Town district for clues and possible witnesses, only they still haven't turned up any leads and...Jill, are you listening?"

I really wasn't listening. Something about the news Cassy told me left a…sensation, for lack of a better term. A gut feeling that something about it all didn't sit well with me. First off, why would Don be anywhere near the China Town District in the first place? Only things I could immediately think of were the cheap prostitutes walking down the streets late at night that lured the (former) Senior Quarterback to one of the most dangerous area in Los Angeles. He could've just been killed by some pimp with an itchy trigger finger.

Still, that gut feeling didn't let go. I felt a strange compulsion to look into it. Might be nothing at all.

Then again, as Murphy once stated; expect the worst and you won't disappointed.

I kind of felt bad for tuning out my friends chatting around me, but I suddenly anxious again to slip on my mask and head out for night patrol.

Nowadays, it's seems I'm always waiting for the night to come, like it waits for the day pass.

Fuck; have I taken this whole masked vigilante thing too far...?

* * *

Streets are practically quiet tonight. Only sounds seem to be distant passing cars on the Golden State Freeway almost nine blocks away.

Horror cinema didn't do reality justice; walking through a graveyard at night is fuckin' terrifying.

Still, what kind of vigilante would I be if I let a minor fear of a nighttime setting get the better of me? I strode past the tombstones and murals without a backward glance, stopping every few moments or so to look around for anyone close by. Evergreen Memorial Cemetery was closed nearly two hours ago, this being the place where they decided to bury the victim, Donald Tray.

This time, I'm outfitted with a utility belt carrying pouches and cases containing various tools needed for my nightly prowls: flashlight, knives, lock-picking kit, pens and markers, handcuffs, sparkler fireworks, lighter, and a water canteen holding petrol. Just in case I need to burn something vital.

I step up close to the grave stone of Donald Tray, marked Born in 1992 – Died in 2009. May the Lord embrace this lost soul with open arms, and rest in peace.

My flashlight comes out, and I click it on, illuminating the tombstone in stark detail. There are flowers from his various former girlfriends or bedmates, some foods and medals from his team mates that must've looked up to him for his charismatic nature with women and talent for football and sports in general. There are few cards, and soon they'll all be picked up and stored in the storehouse in the back of the cemetery grounds with the rest of the miscellaneous items left for the departed.

Reason and instinct waged a silent war inside me the longer I stood before the grave of this guy whom I hardly knew. Reason told me to let it go, there was nothing of real merit to look into, you were grasping at smoky wisps.

My gut was telling me different. Told everything about this whole scenario was wrong, something that didn't make sense, and I just couldn't see it. Don's death was just one piece of this strange puzzle; I'd need more to get a better grasp of the picture.

I reviewed over the details of when the police found Don's body. In China Town, he found near some nameless Chinese restaurant face-down in the pavement with bullet holes riddling his body. From what I managed to garner from different sources whom had seen the body for themselves (and after I'd broken into the coroner's office where his body was put under autopsy), he'd been gunned down as a relative medium distance by a semi-automatic firearm, possibly an MP9 Or Glock, yet no one near the area had heard any gunfire.

That meant either two scenarios:

One: He'd been killed where he was found, only the shooter had used suppression barrel on their firearm, and had picked up all the bullet shells, meaning we're dealing with professionals.

Or Two: He been killed in another location, possibly inside a building or warehouse to lessen the sound of discharges, and his body was simply dumped where he'd been later found, meaning it was an actual gang attack.

There's still the question as to _why_. Why had he been killed? Was it simply a gang that decided to dispose of him and leave his corpse as some unspoken threat to the community not to cross them? Just use some stranger that wandered into their territory and use his dead body as a scare tactic?

And why was he here in this area at all in the first place? If he was in fact killed in this district, why would he even be in Chinatown at all? He's a jock and womanizer to the core. What could he have wanted here he couldn't have gotten in another part of town where his race would have more authority?

One step at a time. He had plenty of friends. They'd have to know something. He must've contacted someone in his circle of friends as to his whereabouts or destination the night before his body was found.

This was going to be difficult, to say the least.

* * *

Tracked down the going-away party for Don; all his team mates were in attendance, and drinking themselves into a drunken stupor. I waited outside, hiding in the bushes across the street where the lights in the house were on and everyone inside was jumping around to the deep base beat of their music sound system. At some point, one of them had to leave through the front door, get some fresh air.

Patience had paid off. Ten minutes later, one of the frat boys stumbled drunkenly out of the front door, slamming it behind him with a beer bottle still in hand. From the porch light, I could see his spiky platinum-blond hair, checkered-pattern shirt and baggy jeans. I recognized him as Eric Smith, the runningback on our school's football team.

Definitely friend to Donald.

Once he stumbled to his knees, swigging back his beer once more, I was already moving across the street until I was standing above the kneeling drunkard. The moment he lowered his bottle, my fist hit his cheek and he dropped, spitting out his alcohol before landing on his side and discarded his beer bottle. I wasted no time to drag him off by his shirt collar to the side of the house near the bigger bushes where we wouldn't be interrupted.

Once I got him alone, I smacked him around a bit, get him slightly more sober. He snorted when my palm met his face, and he shook his head around, getting his bearings.

"Come on, sober up you fuckin' drunkard."

He looked at me annoyed, his words slurred. "The fuck d'ya wan'?"

My hand pulls out the butterfly knife from my boot. I flip it open to let him know I'm not kidding around. His eyes go wide, and my hand clamps over his mouth before he could raise an alarm.

"You scream, peep, or so much as croak without my telling you, I'll cut out your tongue, slit your throat, and wait for someone else to wander outside. You'll just be another notch on my deathtoll. Now, I've got questions, and you're gonna give me some answers. Savvy?"

He gave me the barest of nods, all drunkenness forgotten in his shock and fear.

"Good. Now, your friend, Don, the quarterback, he died three days ago, gang shooting. Did he tell you anything about where he was going?"

With my hand clamped over Eric's mouth, he managed only to shake his head negative.

"Did he tell any of his friends on the football team of his whereabouts?"

A second's hesitation. Then a nod.

"Someone at this party?"

He shook his head no.

"Who?"

His voice was muffled beneath my hand, so I raised it up just enough to hear his answer.

"Coach Clements. Don talked to him just after practice after the rest of us left the school. Hadn't seen him since then."

Good. Now I had a name. Coach Clements; former Varsity sports player, best in football and soccer, turned to reputable P.E. teacher and sports coach for our school after retiring from playing in the big leagues. All I need do now is find him.

"Thanks. And, sorry in advance."

"Wha-?"

Thankfully for him, my first punch was all I needed to knock the poor sucker's lights out, and left him in the bushes for someone else to find in the morning. Later, he'll assume it was all just a drunk-induced dream.

With no other ideas pertaining to Coach Clements' routine checkpoints, I went to the first place I thought could hold any clues:

Theodore Roosevelt High School.

Never did like breaking into faculty rooms.

Still, there was this feeling in my gut telling me to press on, so I did.

I couldn't help but wonder—what could I possibly stumble onto?

END CHAPTER ONE…


	2. Suit Up

**Disclaimer: I don't own Kick-Ass. The movie or the comic. This story, on the other hand, is mine. The plot is mine. The characters are mine. The setting is mine. While I drew inspiration for this fanfic from watching "Kick-Ass", I may or may not even use the characters from the comic or the movie, until I decide for certain at a later date. Until that time, this fanfic belongs to me and me alone. Anyone is free to use my characters to use in their own fanfics, but I'm claiming credit first.**

_**Warning: Alright. I'll give y'all fair warning. There MIGHT be slight racial references in this fanfic of mine, including some graphic violence and harsh language, possible adult themes later on. Don't like, don't read. I'm not forcing you.**_

_**But, if you plan to issue insults and needless critisms in your reviews (if you chose to even leave any), just don't bother. I'll delete any useless reviews anyway.**_

I'm done here. Let's get this show on the road.

Marker!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Suit Up**

It's past midnight now. The date is November 14, 2009, as of today. The night's chill is a welcome relief to the choking humidity of the day-time. Sometimes it gets too damn hot here in Los Angeles.

Thankfully for me, Theodore Roosevelt High School was only three blocks away from the Evergreen Cemetery. Took me only fifteen minutes to get there.

Breaking in was easy, at least. Thanks to lock-picking kit I…procured from my old man, the school doors were quickly unlocked, and a quick sprint toward the alarm system, I had disconnected the power cable from the keypad set next to the principal's office. Not a permanent solution, but it should give me a few minutes, maybe ten if I'm lucky. At some point, another security measure will go off if power to the keypad isn't reset. I'd have to be quick.

I managed to unlock the Teacher's Lounge doors with relative ease, closing it shut behind me and locking it, just in case someone came in early and didn't find an unlocked door. The room was dark; only light came in through the windows from the street lamps. It didn't help much, so I brought out my LED flashlight, keeping my fist closed around the light face to keep the light glare minimum and not attract unwanted attention.

Found Coach Clements' desk. I started pulling out some drawers. Letters, mostly, applications for assigning his star P.E. students into new sports programs, set them up for getting into the big leagues.

Hello, what do we have here? A letter of refusal from the sports committee, issued to Don Tray. "Due to your affiliations and poor school record regarding academics and disreputable reputation, we as the Sports Committee regret to inform you your request for application has been denied until further notice."

That must've been why he stayed behind with the Coach. Guess that crosses him off as a candidate for murder suspect, or affiliate. Still, there had to be something else.

I left the teacher's lounge, locking up once again, and I set off toward the Gymnasium. I made an immediate route to the locker room. According to the roster back in Coach Clements' office, Don's locker was 46F. For some reason, no had deigned to empty it out yet. Maybe they thought it would keep morale up with the seniors by keeping Don's stuff untouched, at least for the time being.

Ah, here it is. Maybe he left something in here I could use to tie together this fractured picture.

Knife tip slip through, a slight twist, and presto! Open locker. Not much in here; photos of old girlfriends and group shots of he and his sports buddies, sweaty shorts, muscle shirt, cleats, deodorant, cologne, small plastic black bag…

Small black bag? Interesting.

I reach for it, felt something hard and cold, and metal. I feel a handle, and a hole ring, as well as a sharp tip like a trigger.

I freeze.

Holy shit. Don was packing a firearm, and brought it to school? What was he thinking, wanting to start a school-ground massacre?

Thankfully, my gloves covered the fingers to prevent any risk of leaving behind fingerprints, so I carefully pulled the firearm free from the plastic bag, revealing the hand gun in all its glory.

The weight was solid, but also light in my grasp. I recognized it as a 9mm Glock 19, a dark gray semi-auto pistol that actually worked as a medium-strength armor-piercer. These guns could blast a hole through Kevlar vests.

Curious, I turned the pistol around in my hands, looking at the butt end of the pistol handle. No serial number. This gun wasn't just without serial numbers. It never HAD serial numbers, meaning it was fresh off the assembly line and unregistered in the weapon-system database, otherwise untraceable.

Holy shit.

Feeling the need to keep the weapon, I slipped the gun into my jacket's left-side hand pocket, and turned my attention back to the black bag, seeing there were more items inside.

I get a second surprise when my fingers brush a thick stack of paper bound in the middle with a paper strip. Third time's the charm when my pinky hits the unmistakable surface of a glass tube belonging to a syringe.

I withdraw the items, seeing a stack of hundred-dollar bills equaling as much, if not more, to ten grand in freshly printed bills. The syringe was already filled with some chemical substance, a milky-red liquid lighter than blood.

I hear a noise on the ground near my feet, and I look down, seeing a photo. I knelt, picked it up, and shined my flashlight on it, getting a better look at the picture. It showed this aging storehouse building made of faded-red brick with green garage doors and had all the windows boarded up, Don resting his arm around the neck of some Hispanic guy in the photo in a friendly fashion, holding up his hand in some euphemism of a gang sign. By all appearances, the building belonged in some backstreet ghetto.

Score one for instinct. Either Don was involved with some of the more dangerous gangs dealing with drugs and firearms, or, as the firearm suggests, involved with a much more intricate crime syndicate. Either scenario wasn't good, and both would explain Don's sudden murder.

The real question was, _where_ was he killed, and _what_ prompted the execution in the first place?

Curious, I flipped the picture over in my hand, found some writing in marker scribbled down. I clicked my flashlight on. It read: **1(059)544-7325.**

Possible phone number to the Hispanic guy in the photo? The numbers in parentheses wasn't our area code. Have to look into later. Somehow I've got to find this warehouse, but I can't risk showing the photo around to anyone asking questions. Some of them might be affiliated with this Hispanic thug and alert the rest of their posse. And however simply I could've just handed the evidence in this locker over to the authorities, instinct compelled me to do it alone, trust no one.

I close the locker quietly, putting the money stack and syringe into my jacket pocket and turn to the door, only I stop, frozen, when I hear some noises outside.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Footsteps. Fuck, someone's coming.

My flashlight clicks off silently, and I hug my back against the lockers adjacent to the doorway, listening for the voices coming closer, getting more distinct, more clear. Two of them, both males, probably a little bigger than if their steps are any indication.

"You sho' dis de place, man'?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. News listed 'im goin' to this school. Now shut the fuck up 'afore someone hears us, 'aight?"

Speaker #1 is definitely Spanish, accent and tone and all. Speaker #2 must be some ghetto Caucasian.

My Kabar hunting knife hisses only slightly as I draw it, holding it with the blade pointing down in a reversed grip, waiting for the guys to enter the threshold.

The door swings open, and the first guy enters is the Hispanic man, hair scraggly, facial hair dominating the span of his average face. He could've been no more than twenty, thirty tops. He clicks on a flashlight, scanning around the lockers in front of him as his partner enters just three paces behind, looking bored.

My arm is curled, holding the knife in my left hand. Using the strength of my muscles in my shoulder and triceps, my arm extends in an instant, driving the blade of my knife through the guy's ribs and burying the metal up to the hilt of my weapon. He grunted, loudly, then gasped, feeling the blade pierce the vital tissue of his heart.

What happened next was what could only be described as like a slow-motion movie scene. Adrenaline had shot through my system, not only giving more strength and enhanced reflexes, but also enhanced my perception, seeing everything move slower than normal.

The grunt from the Hispanic guy's partner draws the attention of said Spaniard, and he turns in a flourish, hand going straight to his back, most likely where he'd stored his gun in his pant's waist band as his flashlight's glow partially blinded me. My flashlight clicks on in my free hand as my left arm keeps a firm hold on the knife hilt, using it like a lever to spin my first victim in front of me to act as my shield. Not but a fraction of a second later, the second man draws his pistol, aims at my direction, and fires off countless rounds, all hitting either the lockers behind me, or sinking into my human shield. Only my own flashlight keeping the gunman blind to me saved me from getting shot.

Instinct takes over. My right hand still holding my flashlight keeping the gunman blind to me, my left hand releases the knife still in my human-shield, and slides into my jacket pocket, grips the handle of the Glock 19, tilting the muzzle upward to the general direction of my attacker, and pull the trigger three times in rapid succession, tearing holes through my jacket's pocket.

The flashlight falls. I can't hear it as the thunderous retorts of gunfire in the cramped space of the locker room nearly deafened my sensitive hearing, but I can see for myself how the Hispanic man drops to his knees, holding his bleeding belly as a dark stain around his chest also blossoms scarlet on his shirt. He dies in less than a minute from drowning in his blood.

I let my former human shield drop, dead, hitting the floor like a sack of heavy meat. He must've died within seconds of my knife hitting his heart. His back is riddled with holes, each one weeping scarlet.

My adrenaline rush dies down, and shock makes my nerves go haywire once more, though much more subdued than last time I experienced this. This wasn't from killing these guys, but from the upclose experience of exchanging gunfire. The deafening retorts, the recoil of the guns as they fire their ammo, and the smell of cordite from the gunpowder discharges. It's more than what I've been used to.

I can't let my shock get the better of me. Someone was bound to hear the gunshots, and I couldn't stick around. I got what I needed from Don's locker, but I needed some info on these guys. I kneel down to inspect their pockets, finding their wallets and cell phones easily enough. When I kneel down next to the Hispanic guy, a sharp pain flares around my gut, making me hiss in discomfort. I look down, see nothing next to the black of my shirt, and felt around the fabric, feeling something wet touch my fingers, and warm.

Ah, fuck. Guess that bastard managed to get a lucky shot on me. Adrenaline must've dulled my sense of pain when the bullet hit. I didn't know for certain which organs did or didn't get hit, but I couldn't wait around to see for myself. With both wallets and mobiles in my possession, I made a hasty retreat out of the school, not bothering to reset any of the security measures left disabled. I didn't have the time to spare.

* * *

Ten blocks later, the pain is getting worse around my belly, promising more agony to come later. I couldn't tell if I was just bleeding out, or if one of my organs had been damaged, the pain made distinction of feeling around in my body almost impossible, but I knew for one thing: I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. Anyone who came in with gunshot wounds would be interrogated by the police, and with those fuckers I've left dead in the locker room, it wouldn't take long to put two and two together after the coroners ascertained the time of death for those dead bastards and the correlation of my own injuries.

Shit. I knew I was gonna regret this later, but I couldn't take a chance. I jogged over to the closest payphone and slipped in two quarters, dialing a number belonging to a friend I could only hope would be willing to help me. The phone rings three times, each one making me hold my breath, and by the fourth ring, the line clicks and I hear the voice of my friend, Marcus.

_"Hello, this is Marcus. Who's callin'?"_

"Marcus, it's me, Jilliad."

_"Jill. Hey, what's up, bud?"_

No sense in beating around the bush. I was bleeding bad. "I've been shot in the gut, and I can't go to the hospital. It's a long story, but I need your help."

_"Whoa, whoa, dude! Please tell me you're joking. You can't be serious."_

"Marcus, pay attention. I've got a bullet hole the size of a quarter in my belly three inches to the left of my navel, and I'm bleeding badly. I've got no time for any bullshit, are you coming to get me?"

Six seconds pass. Each one feels like a minute.

_"Tell me where you are."_

* * *

Half an hour later, Marcus has me tied to his dad's dining room table, strapped down to keep me from flailing about as he cuts into my stomach, opening the skin and muscle while I'm sedated on painkillers to numb a horse. Tells me it's his own special cocktail of chemicals to keep one numb to pain, gives them the strength of ten men, and keeps the bleeding from any sustained wounds from sending you into shock. All I feel is a sick revulsion/fascination as I watch Marcus plunge his medical tweezers into the entry wound of the bullet, slowly pulling the projectile out, and the slight burning sensation of numbness around where he's operating.

Gotta hand it to a guy who's got a doctor for a dad. My old man was a soldier and I'm using what he taught me to kill people. Go figure.

"Alright.", Marcus said, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal, the bullet dropping into a chrome pan maybe. "All done. Luckily no major organs were hit, just a tear around your large intestines. Just need to stitch you up."

"Sear the wound closed." I rasped harshly.

He turns his head to me, eyebrow cocked at me incredulously. "You're serious?"

I nod.

He sighs, taking a rag and covering my eyes. A courtesy to keep me from panicking when he does it, no doubt. I barely feel a pinch when one of his heated tools goes about searing my flesh shut. Once finished, he pulls the rag off my face and gets to stitching me up, just a precaution incase my wound reopens.

Another twenty minutes roll off the clock. I'm watching the clock set above the stove in Marcus' kitchen in a drowsy daze; each time I blink another two or three minutes disappear from my notice.

"Done. All that's left is to get your system cleared from the drugs. Mind you, this might make you pass out."

Ah, hell. I knew I wasn't gonna like this.

The sense of touch returns to me in a swath of warmth spreading from my insides-out, like I was frozen numb and immersed in hot water to return feeling back again. The pain in my belly is slight, nothing more than a burn, but when I make a move to sit up, the burning enflames like my flesh is ignited from within, and an agonized groan escapes me.

"Calm down, buddy. Just take it nice and slow."

Gotta give Marcus his due credit. He did a damn good job on me. I should be having my guts spilling out of my belly. Instead I've got a mere discomfort to deal with in the coming weeks. A bargain trade if I've ever had one.

The lashings holding me down are removed, and I carefully roll over off the table, setting my feet down on the floor one at a time, bracing for the inevitable vertigo. Once I'm standing upright, my vision swims and sways in time with my unsteady body, but I keep hold on my balance through sheer willpower. Marcus is next to me, keeping his hands close to my shoulders in case I stumble. My hand goes to the patch covering my first bullet wound.

"Careful, Jill. That's still tender. Give it about a week to heal, then the stitches can come out."

I nodded, grateful for all Marcus' help. No doubt you're wondering, 'Why the fuck would it take only a week before he can remove any stitches after getting SHOT? He hasn't got powers of healing like Wolverine.'

Well, I don't heal as rapidly like Wolverine from the X-Men, but apparently I inherited some good genes allowing me to heal just a slight bit quicker than your average meat-bag. I also have a much stronger constitution. It'd probably take a shotgun round to kill me outright.

"So, Jilliad. Tell me, what are you doing with these wallets and mobiles in your jacket pockets?"

I turn to Marcus, seeing him holding the wallets and cell phones of the guys I left for dead at the school. There was a calm, but expectant expression on his face, and I knew no amount of bullshit would fool him.

Taking a seat on the dinner table's chair, I motioned Marcus to sit down. He did, waiting patiently for my explanation.

May as well start from the beginning. "Do you recall when you, Cassy, Carter and I were talking about what kind of superheroes we would be if we could choose?"

He nods.

"Well, that got me thinking. What if I decided to become a masked vigilante myself? No one says I can't, so I decided to go out on patrol around my neighborhood, masked up and armed with a few of my own weapons. First hour into patrol I wandered near Hollywood Freeway where I saw three black guys trying to rape a black girl and knocked her white boyfriend out cold.

"I'm not gonna bore you with minor details, but…I more or less went Punisher on them. Two of which I killed with my own hands, the third got hit by a car coming off the exit ramp. He was already dying, I just finished the job."

Marcus' eyes go wide with revelation. "Those guys that were broadcasted on the news the other day. That was you?"

"Yeah. Any who, since then, I've been going around town at night dealing with the small-fry; few gangbangers, some purse-snatchers, nothing too big.

"Except, just earlier today, when you all told me about Donovan getting gunned down in China Town, that got me curious. I started looking into what happened, and my most recent clues led me into a gun fight with two gangsters back at our high school. I overheard them talking about Don just before things went south.

"And the rest, as they say, is history."

Marcus sat there for a while, staring off into nothing, taking it all in. "Wow."

"…Huh. Wasn't expecting _that_ response."

"So? What are the wallets and mobiles for?"

"Took them from the gangsters I left for dead back at our school just a few hours ago. They're the ones that wounded me. Well, one of them anyway."

"And they were there because…?"

I stood up, going over to my jacket, pulling out the Glock 19, the wad of bills, the syringe, and lastly the picture with the telephone number I had found in Don's locker.

"Found these in Don's locker, hoping to find some clues. Here." I toss Marcus the Glock pistol, startling him. "Check it out. Notice anything?"

He gave me an incredulous stare. "Excluding the smell of cordite and gunpowder from the muzzle?"

"Check the butt of the handle, dumb-ass."

Marcus did, flipping the pistol around to check the handle-bottom. "No serial number?"

"Nope. Never even had one; no filing, no scratches, no parts replaced. This pistol was fresh off the assembly line, and never registered in the firearms database."

Even Marcus was becoming intrigued. "I thought only Special Government Operatives and Special Forces and whatnot had access to untraceable weapons?"

"Unlikely. If anything, I think this gun came from some crime syndicate purchasing through freelance gun dealers that have their own shops to manufacture their own weapons. Either that, or possibly from firearms smugglers. Either case isn't good. Both possibilities mean there's a lot of revenue circulating, and I think the money, gun, and syringe here are the bigger pieces of this puzzle. The only unsolved problem right now is," I pick up the syringe filled with the red liquid. "What could this stuff be? Is a drug these guys are selling around in big quantities, or something else altogether?"

"…You're getting a little into this 'investigation' of yours to be healthy. Why not-"

"-Leave it to the authorities? Can't. Who knows how many and who in the higher-ups are in the payroll of these…smugglers. One thing I can say for certain, is that the bastards I left back at our high school came from one of the local gangs, so once I find out which, I can start from there, backtracking until I get all the facts."

Marcus threw his hands up. "And then what? Jilliad, listen to yourself! You're talking about taking on a crime body that's got one or more of the city's local street gangs under their payroll, and you have no idea how high up these guys are in the social ladder. You're outnumbered, outgunned, and in all likelihood, will get yourself killed before you get anywhere close to finding the root of this investigation. Just tonight you were a hair's breadth from getting killed. And days before that, I'm hearing you've already killed three people. And for what? You started this venture when you heard Don got gunned down, so what do you owe him? Why do this at all?"

"Because no one else will!"

Marcus paused, drawing back when I answered harshly.

"Every day I walk down the streets, see the bastards do as they like, selling their drugs, pimping little girls, killing the weak just for the content of their wallets or watches, hearing the sounds of fathers beating their children behind closed doors and see the bruises on the arms of wives. And through it all, I've seen few –very, very few!—of any of our law enforcement do shit to help them, either because their badges keep them from acting or they're just too self-absorbed into getting into a higher station.

"This is why I'm doing this, Marcus. Because everyone else wants someone else to handle their problems, or hope they'll go away when doing nothing, and it has only perpetuated this _disease_ running through our city.

"I'm doing this because I'm done _watching_. I'm done doing nothing in the face of all this disorder. And so long as I draw breath, I will hunt down –and Kill!- every last pimp, rapist, drug dealer, gun-toting gangster, and law-breaking maggot that harms the innocent."

Marcus stares at me, as if I were a stranger to him. "Jill…"

I feel tired, like my strength just suddenly bled out of me. I drop back onto the couch cushion.

There was silence after that. The only noise in the stillness was the ticking from the clock in the kitchen.

Marcus was the first to break the silence. "I trust you, Jill. Just promise me you won't get someone killed that doesn't deserve it or uninvolved."

"I'll kill only those I know for certain are deserving of it. But if anyone raises their hand against me, I will defend myself."

Marcus sighed, seeming slightly grateful for that much from me.

"What about Carter and Cassy? You gonna tell them?"

I shook my head. "You're the only person who knows about me. Let's keep it that way, at least for now. I've a feeling they'll find out sooner or later on their own or put two and two together. I'm going into deep territory now, Marcus. Fewer people close to me that know, the better."

"Just make sure you don't leave an obvious trail."

I grinned. "I know how to keep myself from being tracked." I hefted the Glock in my hand. "And this little piece will help me quite a bit in that department."

I stood up slowly, getting used to the throbbing around my gut, picking up my shirt and jacket, before stuffing the wallets, mobiles, gun, money and syringe into my pockets. I'm slipping the photo into my pant pocket when I hear Marcus behind me.

"Give me that photo. Maybe I can find out where it is."

I turn to him over my shoulder, seeing the resolve behind his gaze. He wants to help me, knowing the dangers of affiliating with me. Maybe he just wanted to keep the body count as low as possible by giving me a shortcut to my destination.

I toss him the photo, throwing my leather jacket around my shoulders before sliding my arms through the sleeves, and I strode to the door. "Call me when you've found something."

The door shut behind me with an ominous bang.

* * *

The next day, I'm sitting down in my Art III class, doodling as our teacher is doing the same, giving us free time. Some of the other students in the class room are catching up on classwork or near-overdue homework from their other classes, or just dozing off. I'd follow the example of some already fast asleep, only the recently-seared wound on my gut still hurts like a motherfucker, always throbbing hot. It was only my high tolerance for pain that kept my expression neutral from acknowledging its presence.

Strange thing is, the two gangsters I killed and left in the men's locker room were gone. Like they'd never even been there. No blood, no bullet shells, nothing. Not even any bullet holes from the stray rounds that clipped the walls and lockers. It was cleaned up in less than a few hours, and none of the authorities have broadcasted their deaths to be on the lookout for a gunman. It was like one of those scenes in a spy movie to erase any trace of evidence of a particular event's existence from ever being discovered. Someone is going through a lot of effort to keep this whole deal under the radar, I just haven't worked out who.

And I'm still no closer to finding out what happened to Don.

To be quite honest, I still didn't much a shit about the guy. He was just your average egotistical horny jock that made more touchdowns between women's legs than on the football field.

No, the fact is, as much as I hate to admit it, but I'm doing this simply because I _want_ to.

I'll be the first to admit I've some issues with pride, and sometimes I've let it go to my head. I've made mistakes, and I'm far from perfect. I'm not the idyllic image of a superhero in the making.

The truth is, I want something amazing out of life. Do something to be proud of. People could call be a poser for wearing a mask and acting like a superhero, but their mockery would ring hollow behind their own inadequacies, their own incentive to step back and do nothing. Pathetic swine. All the girls would prefer to be like Paris Hilton, whore themselves out to the most attractive guy that has the thickest wallet. All the guys either want to go to college to drink, party, fuck, or hope to get a cool job inspired by less-than-legal motives. Some want to be sport-stars, and all they'll be in the end is a burger flipper at McDonald's or in a desk-job with some boring company firm or some shit.

At least I'm making an effort to do what I want and not settle for anything less.

My reasons for wanting to get rid of access of law-breakers and whatnot around this city have nothing to do with making it a better place. It's just simply a clean-up.

My intentions are not noble. But at least mine are honest, straightforward, and uncompromising in the face of what must be done.

I'm not Batman, a man who suffered at the hands of a desperate criminal who took his family in gunfire, only to rise up and try to be the better man by not stooping to the criminals and cut-throat's standards by taking life, simply for the sake of upholding the code of justice and out of pride.

I'm not like Superman either, a being with the powers of a god, with a heart as noble in all things he does, willing to take the punishment and restrain himself simply out of the fear of losing control and harm the weaker humans.

What is the meaning of being a hero?

My pencil stops. That single question that popped into my head suddenly made me think more deeply into it.

A hero in an individual who risks the safety of his life to help and rescue others in their time of need.

Firefighters are heroes. Rescue people from fires, put them out to save building from becoming cinder. But that's merely part of the job description. People barely give them the credit they deserve for risking their lives to keep our city and towns from burning to ashes and having our citizens buried under charred debris.

Same goes for EMS ambulance operatives. Just doing their job. And they're often not even acknowledged for their services.

Doctors save lives by curing their patients of disease, viruses, stitch the wounded back together, but they're never called heroes. They're just doing their job.

Police officers have been called heroes before. Only now there are so few with honest or good intentions to protect the people, where many have simply gone to bending the rules of the law to their own advantage to either get rich or attain a higher position.

What happened to the real heroes in our world?

When did people simply stop _caring_?

I drop my pencil, setting my head in my hand as I lean over my desk, thinking. Marcus' words suddenly spring to mind the more I think about it all, and I clench my jaw in anger, driving the thoughts away through sheer force.

I know what must be done. I know what it _takes_ to get the job done. Criminals have gotten away with too much in this city, shown too much leniency by our own laws; the bastards that exploit the loopholes for murderers and other scumbags to lighten their sentence. It's about time someone stood up and showed them the consequence of their folly.

Who better than me?

'Cause after all, I'm judge, jury, and executioner, all rolled into one.

My name is JIlliad Thomas. I am Shackle.

And these bastards swarming our streets will know true regret when they cross paths with me.

* * *

Art class ends twenty minutes ago. I'm now in English 3. Teach is taking some time to review our homework from two nights ago, since we had a Teacher-Sub just two days ago. I'm reading one of my graphic novels called Planet Hulk. I'm not worried about my classwork at the moment. Reviewed enough to know the gist of it, and completed enough to avoid homework, if I'm lucky.

A crumpled piece of paper falls on my desk, getting my attention. I turn to my left where Charlotte Louis, a rather pretty, curly-haired red-head, winked at me while wagging her pencil between her fingertips, pantomiming the pose for an eager student.

Curious, I set my comic book down and unravel the paper. It had the words written in pencil: _"Wanna skip class for 10? –Charlotte."_

Why not? Not much to do in class but read my comics and other books stashed in my pack. I write down "sure" on the paper slip and hold it up to show her, and she grins a pretty smile. No one notices, or no one cares. I raise my hand, ask to go to the restroom, and leave the classroom, waiting down the hall twenty paces away from the door for Charlotte.

She comes sauntering out with a sexy swagger in her hips. Standing upright, her figure is nothing but exaggerated curves. Most red-heads are either "fat", "just right", or "a little too slim". Charlotte is anything but.

The best way to describe her shape would be…thick.

_Puerto Rican thick_, as I like to call it.

Not fat or chubby, or chunky, and not muscular, but a blending between the two. Her breasts are huge, easily an H-cup, and her wide hips taper slightly down her thick thighs and slim calves. She's wearing a blue t-shirt that hugs her chest unabashedly, and her jeans are like a second-skin. The few freckles on her nose and cheeks are certainly not a turn-off.

She comes to me with her hips rolling, making her breasts jiggle with every step, and she passes her hand over my groin as she strolls past, and I lightly graze my hand across her stomach and the swell of her breast as she continues on, beckoning me over her shoulder with a "come-hither" flick of her manicured finger.

I follow her to the janitor's closet, one which says "Closed" with _Caution_ tape X-crossed on the front of the door. She opens the door and I'm right behind, one of my hands going straight to her large breasts, fondling the pliable glands of flesh while my other hand goes to her crotch, stroking it from outside her jeans and making her breath suddenly hitch, excited.

The door closed behind us, leaving us both in the dark, only she quickly switched the lights on, and didn't hesitate to start kissing me, using tongue and all. I held back a hiss of pain as her hands started going for my shirt, raising it up and dragging the fabric across the raw-wound still healing around my gut. She mustn't've noticed, 'cause her hands then went straight to my belt buckle then my jeans button and zipper.

My pants dropped only seconds before Charlotte kneeled and pulled her shirt and bra upward, letting her breasts drop free. Her tits are even bigger released as they jiggled from dropping out of her shirt. She reaches behind her back to unclip her bra, letting the undergarment drop forgotten as she pulls her shirt back over her tits.

My boxers were the next to drop, allowing my manhood to spring forth. Her expression turns into elation as she fists my length in her hand, eagerly sucking on the tip as a groan of animal lust tore from my throat, compelling my hips to thrust forward.

Once she had her fill of my manhood in her mouth, Charlotte hefted her breasts up slipped my dick beneath her shirt, and the soft warmth of her breasts sent me into a state of primal restlessness. She squealed when I grasped her tits and started pumping into her cleavage, my tip poking her full lips. Just as the burning sensation of my imminent climax approached, I heard the door latch behind me open and close.

"Having fun there, big guy?"

I cease all movement, only turning my head over my shoulder to spy an African-American girl leaning beside the door with her arms folded. Her black hair is set in two pom-poms atop her head, and the denim jacket matched her tight jeans very well. Were it not for the broken lip and bruise around her chin, she'd be a hell of a looker.

Then I recognized her; that girl that nearly got raped the first night I went out on vigilante patrol.

I keep my face as still as stone, though a flash of irritation crosses my expression, drawing a bit of a fear from the girl.

Pulling my dick back into my boxers and pants, I turn away from Charlotte without apology, staring at the girl across from me impatiently. "Okay, girly. What the fuck do you want?"

Despite the faint smell of…fear, for lack of a better term, still roiling off her presence, the black girl turned to Charlotte and nodded to the door, signaling her to take off. The curvy girl left the closet without even picking up her bra, leaving it abandoned next to my feet, pausing just at the door to wink at me, as if promising to finish what we started later. I was too steamed to even acknowledge her attempt to make-up.

"I hope you'll forgive Charlotte. She-"

"-Did this at your request. I kinda got that when you decided to enter the closet." I snapped impatiently. I didn't trust this girl. "Now, I'll ask again: What do you want?"

"…I want you to do something for me."

"And what makes you think I'll do anything for you at all? I don't even know your name."

"My name's Rebecca Hamil. And what I want you to do is something I will pay you for."

"Again, what makes you think-"

"I know you're that guy that killed those rapists that night I was with my boyfriend."

I quirk an eyebrow at her, incredulously. "And what makes you think I'm this person, exactly?"

As if suddenly sensing an opening to exploit, she leaned forward, stepping closer. "The way you fought those guys that ripped my clothes off. And when you got into that fight with the black guys in the cafeteria. I wasn't sure until I heard your voice, then I knew. You're the masked killer."

A slight turn of my mouth of contempt was my only reaction. "That's hardly very compelling evidence of a crime. You know what they say; It's not about what you know, it's what you can prove. And right now, I'm not all that convinced of anything besides the fact that you're grasping at straws in attempting to blackmail me."

I didn't trust to speak aloud of anything that might incriminate me. For all I know, she's got a wire on her somewhere that might record every word I'm speaking.

I could see the impatience begin to set in on her face. Obviously she assumed she'd have all the cards in her favor, thinking me a dumb brute and a cocky one. Her mistake.

"If you're done, I'll be going now."

I went to open the door, except her hand shot out, grasping my wrist desperately. My first instinct was to lash out and pin her against the wall, or knock her out, but I stopped myself. In this scenario, more things can go south for me than for her if she were found unconscious in a janitor's closest. All she'd need to send my ass to jail is Charlotte's testimony, as she was the only one who saw Rebecca enter this closet with she and I. I was in a greater disadvantage in this situation.

"Please. I'll pay you. Two thousand dollars, in cash, to do something for me."

Despite my earlier impatience still present, her desperation piqued my interest. "What are you trying to pay me for?"

She looked away, biting her bottom lip. Her downcast eyes held a feeling of shame in them. "I want you to kill my dad."

"…Mind repeating that?"

"He's not my real dad, but my step dad. Married my mom, except my mom got sick for a few months, and my step dad started drinking, and…got violent at times. By the time my mom came back home, my step dad started hurting her. My mom left home, never coming back and…left me with my step dad, Mike. And he…"

I think I was beginning to understand. But, just to be sure… "Did he force himself on you?"

A second's hesitation, than a jerky nod. A lone tear escaped her eyes, which she valiantly wiped away. "For three weeks, he'd just get drunk and…kept coming to my room late at night and…h-he always had his hand over my mouth as he…raped me…leave me dirty and bruised and almost bloody…my boyfriend's been understanding, letting me stay at his home until I could solve the situation.

"Four days before those rapists were killed, I went to the police and filed for an arrest for Mike for rape, only my testimony wasn't enough. It wasn't until later that I learned Mike's been bribing the police commissioner to turn a blind eye. And now I can't do anything, and soon social services might come and force me back with Mike. I don't want to get abused by that bastard again."

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a complete bastard that I don't feel empathy for this girl. It's just that I'm often very skeptical of people's motives and words, more often than not being lied to or having the truth twisted, or omitted. I have a hard time trusting people when they're more inclined to lie about everything around to make things easier for them just to suit their image or make others do their bidding.

I turn away. "Well, tough shit, I'm not helping you with anything. You want your dad dead, you kill him yourself. It's easy. Just wait until he's asleep after he's tossed back his brews and slit his throat. How hard can that be?"

"But I don't want to-"

"-Get your hands dirty with blood?", I snarl at her, leveling my most hate-filled stare at her that made her draw back a step. "Don't want to have a dirty conscience for taking a life? Well, too-fucking-bad, bitch! Don't come crawling to the first muscle-head you expected to bribe to do your dirty work if you haven't got the stomach to do it yourself."

"Does it look like I want to get arrested for murder?", she screamed pathetically at me, almost to the point of tears.

My empathy for her was thinning fast. "Like I said, not my fucking problem. There are always consequences when you take actions into your own hands. And I'm not interested in being used by a gutless cunt like you."

I shrug her hand off my shirt sleeve and exit the janitor's closet, leaving Rebecca to cry softly in the abandoned room.

"Heartless bastard…" I heard her sob. "God-damn you…"

Despite my earlier show of disinterest, I felt my jaw clench like I was intent on making my gums bleed.

If only that could alleviate the rage building in me.

* * *

Seven hours later, my anger is still at an all-time high. Somehow, though, I keep it in check, honing it into keeping me focused, driving me into doing what I should've been doing from the get-go.

Striding down Rockwood Street, I could almost feel a change in myself as much as I've changed my outfit.

Because I'm a dirt-bike rider, there's a certain prerequisite to have a coat, or protective jacket, that's used to keep me from getting a "friction-burn from hell" if I ever have a wipeout on any sort of motor bike.

Now, on the other hand, I've given it a recent overhaul after returning home after school; It's blood red with cushion pads along the length of the sleeves, an overlap of large buttons coming over the zipper, and I added a hood to the neck-line to cover my masked head, as well as fitting some Kevlar lining and body armor plates from my old man's older uniform ballistic armors that fell into disrepair after his last service, stitching them on the inside of my coat. I'm still using the black ski-mask, as I haven't found a decent material to make my desired helmet from yet, only now I'm wearing my dad's old pair of desert-camo pants that he left to collect dust in the attic.

With my Glock strapped on my thigh with my dad's old gun holster, and a utility belt carrying an assortment of pouches from his uniform as well, I was never more prepared for a full night's exploration.

First thing's first. I've got an appointment with a certain rapist.

* * *

I remember back when I was thirteen. Wandered into a comic book shop after a fist-fight didn't go my way ('course, I was outnumbered three to one. Didn't mean any of the dumb fucks walked away unscathed.) I found this comic of this Marvel superhero called Moon Knight. Apparently he was the Marvel Universe's equivalent of Batman, only much more of a killer, has more mental instability, and is a lot less recognized by the readers of the Marvel Genre.

I couldn't help but feel drawn to this strange, morbid character. As opposed to the general mainstream superheroes that tried to keep themselves from needlessly killing their enemies, the Moon Knight on the other hand welcomed bloodshed to punish the bad guys that killed, raped and abused their victims. He was like Gabriel the Archangel, sent down by his God Khonshu to punish the wicked and spread fear into the hearts of wrongdoers who ever heard his name.

And yet, I could also see a man broken on the inside, twisted in many ways, almost as if just a thread away from breaking at the seams.

Despite this, I couldn't help but feel that, maybe he needed to be broken completely, in order to put himself back together again.

He serves a near-forgotten Egyptian god called Khonshu, has three different identities, has a demonic imaginary friend that compels him to kill anyone, suffered from a near-crippling injury to his legs that kept him from standing or walking, and more or less turned into angry-drunkard pill-popper just to cope with the loss of his vigilante lifestyle and his god's blessings.

What I found strangest of all however, is how his fixation on his former girlfriend never seemed to abate. It could only be called border-lined sick obsession almost.

And perhaps the most human.

And no one in the Marvel Universe can be his ally. They call him crazy, a psychopath, a murderer.

Right now, I couldn't help but wonder if I'm emulating him right now, following in his footsteps without knowing.

Right now, I'm crouched atop the neighboring building's roof, looking into the lit-up window of the rapist bastard's apartment as he's swigging down one bottle of beer after another amidst his buddies as he and three hookers go about fucking like drunken animals.

Right now, I'm thinking back to what Rebecca told me back at school in the janitor's closet. Where was the lie, the deception to get me to do her bidding?

But above all else, I have to know the truth.

Acting on impulse to kill someone would only show myself to be a mindless killer. I have to _know_ who I'm killing, know that it's the kind of person that truly deserves punishment and execution. To do otherwise would make like the trash I've sworn to kill.

So I listen. Carefully. Straining the limit of my hearing to listen to these drunkard's prattle within the moans of sexed-up women and the slap of naked flesh and whoops of horny men. I listen for almost half an hour, feeling my legs go to sleep in my uncomfortable position, when, after the six parties inside had their fill of sex, drugs and alcohol, I hear the words I needed to know.

"Hey, Mikey! 'Though you said we'd get your little girl tonight? I paid ya fifty bucks 'n advance to fuck 'er!"

"Little bitch'll come back anytime now. Just keep yer dick busy with these hoes 'til she comes 'round."

The two men share a laugh. They don't know they've just damned themselves to a merciless execution.

Ten minutes later after climbing down the fire escape, I stand in front of the door to Mike's apartment. I give two quick knocks and wait.

I didn't wait one second after hearing the thumps of footsteps reach the door before I promptly kicked in the door, ripping it free of its hinges and hitting the poor fucker on the other side in the head. He fell down underneath the door, unconscious as I walked over the wood panel, pulling my Kabar knife free of its sheath as Mike and his last friend scramble off their couch and turn to face me. The whores are too stoned to even wake up, too hyped on coke and booze to even stir.

"Who the fuck are you, asshole?" Mike demands, his black face a mix of wide-eyed fear and aggression. His hair is threaded into cornrolls, and his wife-beater is baggy on his tall but rather slim body. He probably weighed as much as me. His friend is a black guy too, only much more muscular in comparison. He outweighed me by fifty pounds.

Despite myself, I couldn't help but grin, snickering slightly. I think there's a little devil in me wanting to get out. "I'm the guy that flays rapist scumbags like you across your own homes with your guts festooned around your bed posts. I'm the guy that doesn't give the second chance, or a shred of mercy. And right now, you two are pretty high on my shit-list."

Mike suddenly starts chuckling. It's a desperate, strained sound, as if compelled to acknowledge some dumb joke. "You fuckin' kiddin' me?"

"My name is **_Shackle_**, motherfucker!", I roared, pulling my Glock free of its holster and aiming at Mike's friend, see his eyes go wide before the round I fire empties his head. "And I'll be killing you slowly over the next few hours for all the sins you've done!"

Mike tries to run, managing to turn to the window and take two steps. That's as far as I allowed the bastard before my next round hit him behind his knee. He tumbled to the ground face-first, hands grasping at his ruined knee as a soundless scream tore at his throat, his eyes wide and panicking. I swift punch to his face knocks him out cold in a spray of bloody spittle and teeth, and I drag him away down the building's stairs and out into the streets. I turn into the alley of another building two blocks away, hidden away in the shadows as sirens flew past.

I hear Mike whimper as I drag him into the dark, his fingernails breaking off in his poor attempt to stop the innevitable.

"Oh, don't you worry, Mike." I said to him, speaking in a venomous rasp. "We'll have_ lots_ of fun together tonight before the sun rises. Here, let me show you my toys..."

* * *

Guess what was on the first page of the newspaper the next day?

"'Masked Killer Suspected of Gruesome Murders'", Marcus says as he reads the local Newspaper. "'Next-door neighbors of one of the victims, Mike Rogers, gave their testimony of hearing gunfire and a fight in said victim's apartment. Mike Rogers found dead in alley, eviscerated and castrated with his entrails wrapped around neck. Coroner's uncertain about how victim died. Police now stationed and on patrol for psycho vigilante, supposedly called 'Shackle'. Public is advised to call your local authorities for any information regarding the name and/or whereabouts of masked individual.'"

Marcus suddenly throws the paper on the table between us. I'm visiting his house again to get the stitches removed a few days ahead of schedule.

"Well, I got to hand it to ya, Jilliad. You really know how to go all out. I'm surprised the paper didn't have anything more 'colorful' to say about you."

I shrug. "Perhaps." I said, a grin slowly tugging at my mouth. "Though you gotta admit. This is one fuckin' kick-ass story."

"Was the evisceration really necessary? I mean, what did this poor bastard do to deserve _this_?"

My grin vanishes, and my hands fold themselves around my lap. "There's kind of a funny story behind that…."

END CHAPTER TWO


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